


The Journals of CSR

by Kauri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn, cullen is so sad, like too fucking long, long fic, someone hug him, who am I kidding this is mostly angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kauri/pseuds/Kauri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can’t even remember the name of the Templar that had suggested it to him, when he was a recruit, weeks fresh. A journal. To track his progress, make note of things he should not wish to forget, a place to pour his feelings of homesickness, of inadequacy. His hopes, aspirations, successes… failures. A place without judgement. A place to remember that held in each blank page, and each new day was a chance to do the Maker’s work. A chance to do better.</p><p>A chance to be a better man.</p><p>--</p><p>A multi POV retelling of Inquisition, through the eyes of a rather broken Cullen Rutherford, an equally broken Lavellan, and the Commanders faithful journals.</p><p>or, How Inquisition could have been if DA had been less choose-your-own-adventure, overall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is recruited to the Inquisition

  ** _Day 1_**

_I do not know if I should thank Seeker Pentaghast or, curse the weather. In truth, the later has been more readily on my mind. I have had no fondness for Kirkwall, save duty, and no duty since I left the Order._

_I_ **_l_ _oathe_ ** _Kirkwall._

 _The storms delayed us little more than a week; I should like to believe I simply have a fervor to serve - but honesty demands I admit that I have no patience for waiting._ **_None._** _I am glad to be rid of this place._

_Thankfulness no longer comes easily to me. Though, I expect Seeker Pentaghast will forgive that shortcoming as well. She has already forgiven so much. The state she found me in, was not, I believe, what she expected of the future Commander of the Inquisition._

_I had – understandably –_ **_not_ ** _anticipated the arrival of the Right Hand of the Divine at_ The Randy Nug. _I would have been rather less drunk, and likely, less belligerent._

_I also would have shaved._

**_And bathed._ **

_It has been no little time since I have felt any amount of gratitude, but I must indeed thank both the Maker, and Seeker Pentaghast’s_ ~~_tolerance_ _acceptance_~~ _optimism -  that she found in me something still worthy. Perhaps I flatter myself, and she simply had no better options. She is a woman of uncommon faith._

_I cannot help but wonder if I am, in no small way, betraying that faith. I had, of course told her of my one requirement of accepting the position, and she agreed, with little more than a raised brow. I will no longer take Lyrium._

_It is what I have chosen. And yet, to see the words so plainly written… I find my resolve faltering. Already. I am a Templar no longer. I have not_ **_been_ **_a Templar,_ ~~ _since_~~ _for some time. And, I cannot truly distance myself from the Order if I am leashed still._

_But…_

_When life holds little else save Lyrium, drink, and women, it is not possible to let those things go. I had thought that with new purpose I could… that I should… but…_

_The Inquisition has a scant battalion of men, few officers, and no Commander. Perhaps that is why I accepted, as much as for myself. I know what it is to be a soldier with no one to follow._

_I know, too, what it is to follow someone not worthy of command._

_It is far worse._

**_Lyrium changes you._** _Digs a hole in your soul that only a draught can fill. I will endure what is required of me to live beyond the shadow of the order. Yet there is so little written of what to expect of life after Lyrium. Templars have gone mad, even died without it. Surely that will not be my fate, but what kind of a leader can I expect to be while the Lyrium leaches from my bones?_

_I had half expected Seeker Pentaghast to tell me I was mad, or to rebuke me entirely. Yet she did not, and so I made myself a promise._

_I will keep it._

       - CSR

 

**_Day 2_ **

_Now I remember why I did not leave Kirkwall sooner._

_I loathe the sea._

_The storms are – not entirely – behind us and the ship is pitching like…_ [Here the ink is smeared, and the page slightly crumpled as if gripped by a fist.]

**_I will not describe it._ **

_I find I am not Seeker Pentaghast’s only traveling companion. She has taken Varric Tethras prisoner, intent to present him at the Conclave. She has not shared her reasoning, which is likely good -- she is not_ ~~_an unreasonable_~~ _a frivolous woman, but she does not know Varric as I do. He is ~~problematic difficult troublesome~~ a Dwarf. _

_No doubt I lack the poetic capacity to describe him._

_She wants Hawke to lead the Inquisition. That much she_ **_has_** _shared with me. This in no way affects my decisions. Either of them. But I must express a certain unease at the thought of serving under a Mage. Even Hawke. Perhaps especially Hawke._

 _It is an open secret that the…_ **_thing_** _that destroyed the chantry at Kirkwall, that_ **_started_** _the war was an associate of Hawkes. He could have stopped it. He could have brought the_ ~~ _man_~~ _abomination to justice._ **_Yet he did not._** _Are these truly the actions of a man fit to lead the Inquisition? He was there when the war started -- may even have had a hand in its beginning! Is he capable of bringing it to heel? Can I, in good conscience --_

x

The quill in Cullen’s hand cracks under the strain of his writing, leaving an angry blotch on the page. He stares at it, trying to will his breathing to slow and his brows to unknit.

 It would be easy, he knows, to lay the blame at Hawkes feet. And, much as he wants to, he keenly feels his own guilt in the matter of Kirkwall, and the war. Who but the Templars are responsible for the actions of the Mages? Who but the Templars are charged with keeping the peace? Who ultimately, failed?

 He knows the answer.

 The ship tilts on the back of a large swell. He can hear the cabin creaking around him under the sudden shift of the hull. The ink in the glass well at his elbow mimics the roll of the waves.

 “Maker.” He presses his hand over his eyes, willing his nausea away.

 He feels the ghostly touch of a headache beginning. Perhaps sitting in a dark cabin during an unholy storm is not wise. He considers venturing to the ship’s deck, fresh air being of short supply below, but he remembers the Captain’s advice -- issued after the fact, and to the sound of the deckhands uproarious laughter  -- on the necessity of avoiding puking directly into the wind. He’s determined not to be sick again, but if he’s below decks, at least it’ll land where he puts it.

 And there is, after all, something he can do in regards to Hawke.

\---

Varric sits in the semi-darkness at the back of his -- noticeably smaller -- cabin, half-curled around an over-turned barrel that smells strongly of stale wine. A quill in one hand, an inkwell in another. He scarcely glances up.

“Curly, do your vomiting in your own cabin. The ship’s rollicking like a night spent in an Antivan whorehouse – wet and unpredictable.”

He glares at the Dwarf. “I am not seasick.” He corrects tersely.

Varric makes a dubious sound, “Glad to hear it. What, then _are_ you here for?”

“Seeker Cassandra sent me to inquire upon the whereabouts of Hawke.” The words sound absurd the moment they are out of his mouth. If the Dwarf was known for anything beyond his cutting wit, it was for his loyalty.

Varric turns back to his writing. “I already told the Seeker I’d write out a list of where Hawke might be. She can have it when I’m done.”

Cullen’s brows raise as he looks at the parchment. The scroll is spilling over the side of the barrel and across a few feet of the floor, curling thickly against the wall and covered edge to edge with the Dwarf’s neat, yet somehow, dramatic hand.

Varric shrugs at his expression. “It’s hardly my fault that Hawke is inventive and capricious, _also_ , like a night in an Antivan whorehouse. For all I know he could actually _be_ in an Antivan whorehouse. Come to think of it, I should write that down… I know a few…” He dips his quill and begins scratching.

Cullen leans over Varric’s shoulder and reads. “The eighth stall in the stables of _Villa Luna_ in Montsimmard; the Oldest Windmill in the hills of Jader; the Second Oldest Windmill in the hills of Jader; Thedas, probably.” His eyes narrow. “You cannot possibly expect me to deliver this to Cassandra.”

“And _you_ , cannot possibly expect me to deliver _Hawke_ to Cassandra. How long have you known me?”

The ship pitches precariously, back and forth, forestalling Cullen’s answer as he turns a delicate shade of green. “Oh, shit..”

Shit shit shit.

  _Shit._

Varric sighs. “Yes, that _does_ just about sum up our acquaintance.”

\--

Cassandra eyes him narrowly, her expression difficult to read. At least she’s not shouting. She’d shouted at Varric for at least two solid days, the sounds from behind the walls of his cabin were too indistinct for him to pick up the words, but the tone was obvious even so. They sounded like two Mabari facing off, all growls and sharply edged teeth.

But now she is above decks, the scars on her cheeks are vivid, still a deeper red than her flush. She is quiet for so long that he feels suddenly as though he is fifteen again, a raw Templar recruit being scrutinized by a trainer sure to find him lacking. A part of him wants to squirm away from her gaze, and he flushes at the sensation.

 “How do you feel?” She asks.

 “Better now that we’ve sailed around the storm.”

 The wind shifts slightly and she wrinkles her nose at him. He smells of sick. “How _else_ do you feel _?”_

 _“Fine.”_ He answers tersely.

“Have you eaten?”

He sighs automatically, then sighs again. “No. There didn’t seem to be much point.”

She surprises him by not pressing the matter further, and gestures over towards the ship's railing. “I received a message from Leliana. She was successful. Josephine Montilyet has agreed to join the Inquisition as our Ambassador. It is she who will manage our alliances and, Maker willing, keep the… _obscenities_ of the nobility in check.”

He presses his lips together in an attempt to mask his smile. Cassandra always finds it impossible to speak of the nobles in any tone gentler than a sneer. He does not disagree with her distaste.

 “They will reach Haven a few days before us, but we shall journey to the Conclave together. The first few days are posturing in any case, and the Divine wishes to present the Inquisition as a unified force. I _had_ hoped that the Champion…” She flaps her hand dismissively at the thought, but he can see her annoyance with Varric renew itself. “Cullen, you...knew Hawke in Kirkwall.”

 It isn’t really a question, but she hesitates, and after a moment he fills the silence.

 “Not as well as you might expect.” He explains. “I spent a great deal of our acquaintance trying very hard not to notice what he was doing. I would be no great help in locating him, I’m afraid.”

 She nods gravely, flickering her attention back to him. “Varric assures me of the same. I shall make him write to Hawke’s other associates, and Leliana will join the search after the Conclave. We will find him. And when we do, I need to know that you are able to serve the Inquisition under a Mage.”

  _Oh_. That.

 “I will, of course, do my duty.” There’s only the slightest edge in his voice.

 “That’s not what I asked.”

 He can feel a heat on the back of his neck that has little to do with the sun, yet he is content to pretend otherwise.

 The ocean rises beneath them in soft, glittering swells. The sky is still a little grey, streaked with subtle wisps of cloud. The black fury of the waves, of the driving rain has fled and the stillness has the same hushed, reverent quality of a Chantry. A place that’s strength and beauty is matched only by its peace.

 It is nearly sacrilege to pollute such a place with memories of failure and ruin.

 Yet, he cannot fault her for asking. “This war must end. Templars and Mages must find a common ground. Common purpose.” He pauses, picks his way around the jagged places inside him that utterly _rail_ at the thought. “Kirkwall hailed Hawke as a champion, and I know him to be capable...and _honorable_ , if a bit impetuous.”

  _“And?”_ She presses.

 “And…” He takes a deep breath, and commends his soul to the Maker. “And he helped start the war. Perhaps it is just that he have the opportunity to set it to right.”

Cassandra’s expression stays fixed, and stern, but her eyes dart to him, briefly. “Are we _still_ speaking of Hawke?”

He breath hisses out of him, very softly, and he turns to face the sea again. It’s a while before he notices a sharp pain in his jaw and realizes he’s been grinding his teeth and glowering silently at the horizon.

 “Kirkwall was… _my_ failing… in so many, many ways.” He finally forces himself to say. “As for Hawke… I served for some time under a half-poisoned madwoman. A mage can only be an improvement.”

 “That you find him merely better than Meredith is not _entirely_ reassuring.” She notes, with raised brow. “And, you have vomit in your hair.”

\---

 Cullen fingers his new Inquisition uniform.

 The under trappings are simple -- black breeches, boots and a pale tunic -- but the crimson surcoat, crested with long black fur, the embossed breastplate with it’s matching pauldrons, and gauntlets; are truly stunning. There’s a great helm there as well, crafted -- of all absurd things -- in the shape of a lion’s head. He picks it up and notices it has an attached mane; another crest of black fur, reinforced with chainmail to protect his neck.

 He’s never been much of a fan of wearing helmets. Even when he was a Templar -- he feels only a small pang at the thought --  he hated it.

 But there’s something that seizes him with… what? Pride? Familiarity? A shit-sinking feeling that he is utterly undeserving, and that everyone, _everyone_ will know it? All those things. And above them all a _sturdiness_ , like a rebuilt bridge inside him -- it feels _good_ to be in uniform again.

 He undresses and re-dresses slowly. There’s a bit of ceremony as he disrobes, as he tries imagine shedding his old life -- that of the broken Templar -- utterly. That the _foulness_ clings to his breeches and trousers, discarded; instead of to _him._ He takes a sort of reverent care with each new piece of his Inquisition uniform as he dresses. He fumbles a bit with the unfamiliar armor, and the _weight_ of it, so different than Templar plate. But when he stands before the mirror, fully armored, his new longsword at his hip, he’s almost impressed with the man he finds staring back at him.

 This _Commander._

 He walks through Haven, where the bones of the Inquisition's forces are being laid. Smithy, stables, barracks. Soldiers -- not as numbered as he would like, but enough -- salute him, eager to impress the man who would lead them. He takes the long, slow climb to the center of the village, where stands the Chantry. Every step feels a step farther from his old life.

 Varric intercepts him at some point, sliding in step with the taller man’s strides.

 “I’m surprised to find you still here.” Cullen muses. “I expected you to halfway back to Kirkwall, by now.”

 “I couldn’t do that.” Varric chuckles. “Not when the Seeker asked me _so nicely,_ to stay. Besides, a forming of a new Inquisition? This is a historic moment.”

 A slight ripple of unease flitters through Cullen’s belly, and then is gone. He isn’t sure historic moments have been kind to him.

\---

 Cassandra greets him at the doors of the chantry with as much of a smile as he’s ever seen her wear. She too has changed from her Seeker robes and into a new set of armor, resplendent with the Inquisition heraldry. It’s a bit of a shock to realize he now, officially, outranks her.

 He mentally adds _outstriping a Seeker_ to the growing list of semi-dubious accomplishments he never thought would be possible.

 “Cullen, you look quite handsome.” Cassandra notes, inclining her head. “One would never know you’d been vomiting constantly for the better part of a week.”

 Cullen’s lips curl, in spite of the backhanded compliment. “You flatter me, Seeker.”

 “No. I don’t.” She holds up a hand. “And in serving the Inquisition, I am just Cassandra. But this,” She says gesturing to the pair of women just exiting the chantry behind her. “Is Leliana Brier, left hand of the Divine, and Seneschal of the Inquisition; and Josephine Montilyet, our Ambassador.” She gestures back to him. “Cullen Rutherford, our Commander. Oh…” Her voice flattens noticeably. “And _Varric._ He is useless.”

 “And never promised to be otherwise.” Varric grins.

 There are various _hellos,_ and general trivial pleasantries. Cullen manages a credible bow, and Varric seems not the least bit bothered with his lack-lustre introduction.

 “So,” Cassandra takes a step back to survey them. “This is the heart… uh…” She reaches, and pulls Varric away from the others. _“This,”_ She continues, voice rising, “Is the heart of the Inquisition, that, Maker willing, shall end the Mage Templar war, and bring peace to all Thedas!”

 Cullen feels himself swell with purpose. Ambassador, Spymaster, Commander. They _glitter_ with the hopeful, fragile beginnings of any new organization. Framed by the sturdy stones of the chantry walls, and dappled with the blues, oranges and reds of the chantry’s stained glass window, they must look how he suddenly feels. Glorious.

 The crowd that had begun to gather raises arms and voices in salute, proud to be a part of such a moment. And Cullen raises his eyes to the heavens, a prayer for the Maker on his lips, and thus sees the moment that heralds the end of the world.

 A sudden flash of green lances through the sky.

 A concussive force knocks everyone off their feet and shatters the stained glass window. Bits of blue and purple glass rain down. Startled screams, and then a sound so loud and powerful it’s felt with the _bones_ as much as the ears. A _crack,_ shuddering through the air with the force of a thousand lightning storms.

 A vortex of green energy, shoots down from the sky, and up from the earth, _splintering_ where the two shafts meet. Twisting furiously as the sky above _rends_ itself, until nothing is left but a gaping _wound_ in the heavens.

 The pebbles that jump into his vision as the ground shudders, alerts Cullen to the fact that he’s fallen, and lays, cheek pressed to the earth. He feels a wetness on his neck and swipes at it, gloved fingers coming away bloody. His ears, like everyone else's, are bleeding.

 Then the _smell_ hits him.

 Magic.

 That sharp-sweet ozone scent is so overwhelming, that has him rolling away, retching, sobbing. Choked by memories as much as anything. Dizzy with the rush of -- _Maker,_ he can _feel_ the hands on his hips, the puff of warm breath against his ear, and the screams… the screams…

 It takes him nearly a full minute to realize that Leliana is the one who’s screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys. Been working on this fic for a while, so thrilled to finally have a chapter to share.


	2. The Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the prisioner

****Cullen stares at the blank page before him, and takes a deep shuddering breath, trying both to steel his thoughts and fight against the fatigue and the _wretched_ numbness already creeping over him. A pair of spidery drops of black fall onto the page, and he swipes at them carelessly, leaving a  bloody smear from one of his torn fingernails. A tear slides down his cheek, surprising him, and falls before he can catch it.

 _How fitting._ The day had been awash with blood and tears.

He feels numb. Drained. Absolutely empty. How many tragedies must he be forced to witness? Witness, and always helpless to prevent.

They haunt him. Linger in his dreams. Bodies burned and brutalized, the soft sounds a person can make when they’re too terrified to scream, or beg. The smell of magic, acrid and overpowering, making his head buzz and his stomach heave.

The way a demon laughs…

“No.” He says sharply to himself, to the Maker, for the room is empty and there could be no one else listening. _“No!”_ He bangs his fist upon the table in impotent defiance, and the ink stand jumps, and then jumps again as he repeats the gesture.

He tries to ignore the tremble in his hands, as he re-dips his quill and writes:

**_Day 11_ **

_The Conclave is destroyed._

_Nearly a thousand souls -- Brothers and Sisters of the Templar Order, Circle Mages and Apostates alike, and the highest ranking members of the Chantry, all come to seek an end to the war. All lost in the explosion that razed the Temple of Sacred Ashes._

_May the Maker grant them_ ~~_justice_ _vengeance_~~ _peace._

_The initial blast leveled one of the nearby villages. Rock and ash rained down on the rest. We spent the day digging survivors and bodies alike out of the rubble._

_It was Kirkwall all over again._

_Less abominations, I suppose._

_Fewer children, too._

_The dead are still, mostly unnamed, or unknown to myself. Though, I have not had the stomach to ask amongst the Templar dead. Coward that I am, I do not think I could bear such knowledge._

_Her holiness Divine Justinia III is dead._

_Cassandra has been weeping all day. As for myself -_

_They sent Gavri to the Conclave, to speak of the Mage Rebellion of Kirkwall. Gavri. The man_ **_I_** _choose as my replacement. The men had seen enough of anger and sharp words. Better a leader who they knew cared. Better a man who was kind, and sturdy, and even shouted with a smile._ ~~ _Had I not_~~ _Had I but kept my vows…_

 _His death is my fault._ **_Mine._ **

_Had I stayed. Had they sent me, as they ought, the world would not have lost a good man._

_Is surviving the only thing I am good at?_

-

Cullen looks down at the page, the tears flowing unchecked down his face make it hard to see. But he reads the last line again, and carefully crosses it out.

He cannot bear how ungrateful such a sentiment makes him sound.

He sits for a time, dripping tears and ink, feeling weak and worthless and an absolute _ruin_ of a human being, until a rising commotion outside finally draws his attention. Shouting. _Bloodlust._ The thrum of a mob on the boil. Cassandra’s voice cutting through the din, ringing with a tone that every fiber of his being has been trained to _obey._

He’s outside before he can even think to be. Sword drawn, and quill still in hand. He drops the lesser implement with a disgusted sound, and goes to the Seekers side, elbowing through the crowd.

“What’s happened? Who-?” He asks, catching sight of the grim -- and rather battered -- bald Elf trailing doggedly behind Cassandra. In his arms, limp, and clearly unconscious is a second Elf, significantly more battered, and less bald than the first.

A female, he thinks, from her shape. A tangle of brownish hair covers most of her face.

“An apostate.” Cassandra barely spares Cullen a steely glance, “And a prisoner.”

“Prisoner?” It’s momentarily disorienting that there can be an apostate _and_ a prisoner. That any known apostate is not automatically _the_ prisoner. He wonders briefly which is which, but the gathered crowd seems to know.

The shouts are growing more distinctive around them. Cries of “Murderer!”, “Knife-Ear!” And, “She killed the Divine!” Are flung at them.

Cassandra’s body bends, fists tight on the pommel of her sword, taking the words like physical blows. He doesn’t need to see her face to feel the rage bubbling under her skin, and realizes suddenly that Cassandra hasn’t drawn her sword out of fear she might use it. But he has little time to contemplate the Seeker’s vitriol, because, someone from the crowd hurls a rock at them.

The apostate dodges adroitly, and Cullen swears. The crowd is already edging towards violence.

When they reach the doors of Haven’s Chantry, he falls out of step, and turns back as the crowd re-gathers in the Seeker’s wake. For a moment, the shouts and clamor are so like Kirkwall, that he forgets who, and where he is, and nearly clangs his sword against his breastplate to call for the Templar Knight-Lieutenant to close ranks.

But the faces turned towards him are gripped with fear and grief, not madness. And the dizzy sense of dislocation leaves him.

He shouts instead.

“This is Inquisition business now! And we are for order, not chaos. Not the blind, blood-lust of a mob!”

Some of those gathered clearly disagree. But the crowd holds it’s form only for a moment more, before slowly dispersing.

Varric is one of the few people left standing in the courtyard. He’s looking at Cullen a little strangely. “Now what?” The Dwarf finally says.

“Come with me.” Cullen commands curtly.

There’s a trail of blood leading through the broken glass at the doors of the Chantry. They’ve taken her below. To the underbelly of the Chantry.

This part of Haven has clearly not been upkept. It’s dank and musty. Barely fit for habitation. Inappropriate for even a prisoner, though the stark iron bars around them say otherwise.

The trio at the heart of the prison are composed like a Chantry painting. Two fierce warrior-Gods facing off across a fallen mortal. The forces of good and evil poised to do battle for a single soul. The sword crossing arms with the staff. Even the light from the small windows set high in the walls cast a dramatic shadows across the figures. The Apostate’s eyes glow, catching the light off of Cassandra’s armor.

Varric makes a small appreciative sound at Cullen’s side.

The Apostate _should_ command Cullen’s attention. Mistrust of an apostate comes as naturally now as breathing. Or Cassandra, even -- sword drawn, and _hissing_ at the Mage, voice low, and dangerous sounding even from this distance. As a Seeker he should look to her command in times of trouble. But, no. It is the girl, this prisoner that captivates him.

She’s… well, she looks very much like she’s dying. Her face is turned towards him, lips nearly bloodless. Her hair is a dark smudge against her cheek, darker now that it was in the sunlight. Nearly black. One long ear pokes through the tangled mass. An old scar bisects the point, as if once someone had tried to cut it off.

It’s a small, suddenly heartbreaking detail of a life that’s likely to end, here, on the floor of Haven’s damp prison.

_It should not be so._

He takes a step towards her. Towards them. And tries to remind himself that _prisoners_ are rarely innocent.

His throat feels dry. “What did she do?”

Cassandra spares him a look, hard and flat. “She destroyed the Conclave.”

The Apostate’s lips thin. “You do not know that.”

The look she gives the Elf is even harder and flatter. “I have given you leave to remain, Solas. Do not presume to tell me what I do or do not know.”

A green light, brilliant and emerald cuts through the darkness of the prison. It’s so like the light he saw before the Conclave was destroyed that Cullen flinches, his hand goes to the sword at his hip, but he fumbles when he realizes that the light… the light is coming from…

“Holy, shit.” Varric swears behind him.

The girl on the floor writhes and screams as the light spills from her open palm. The sound, sharp as a blade, shudders through him. Cuts deep. Hits bone.

“Maker’s breath.” He gasps.

Her cry goes on for what feels like ages. Though it must be only a moment. When the light dies they are plunged into a suffocating darkness as their eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden lack of light. Cullen swears he can still hear the girls screams echoing through the cells.

“What was _that?”_ Varric asks.

 _“She_ killed the Divine.” There’s a finality to Cassandra’s voice, a surety. A Seeker speaking the truth. Her fist tightens on the pommel of her sword and she turns to Solas. “My benevolence only extends so far. I have saved her from the mob, but I cannot save her from the Maker’s justice.”

“I believe, _I_ can stop the mark.” Solas says. “Or, at least slow its progress.”

Cullen lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“I have had _quite_ enough with magic today.” Cassandra says, with a frown, but falls silent, considering.

“You have questions only _she_ can answer.” Solas reminds, gently.

Cassandra bows her head. Cullen can tell she’s praying. Somehow it makes the scene look _less_ like a Chantry painting, and more like a Harrowing. A fallen form, caught in an internal battle, and her watchers, determining if she lives or dies.

The girl on the floor is still unconscious, but she isn’t entirely still. She’s restless, teeth drawing back against the pain running through her. She’s pale and drawn in a way he associates with someone being scoured from the inside… by magic. The place on her palm where the light spilled looks like a wound. The flesh angry and torn, leaking _light,_ not blood. The wound smokes ominously, spilling bright motes of green that reek of ozone and burned metal.

Unease skitters up Cullen’s spine.

Cassandra nods. “Save her, then. If you can. Commander...” She turns to Cullen, expression unreadable. “If she succumbs… to whatever magic is inside her…” She reaches out and touches the pommel of his sword, delicately.

_No._

Unease flares into alarm. “Seeker… Cassandra, I-”

 _“She_ is a _Mage,_ Cullen.”

_Oh no._

He glances at Solas, but the elf is turned away, jawline sharp and unyielding.

It _is_ a Harrowing, of sorts. And he’d sworn never… never again…

“I...” Cullen shakes his head. “I am no longer…”

Cassandra pulls the sword from his hip with great deliberation and presses the hilt against his hand. _“You,”_ She says firmly, “Are the only one trained for this vigil.”

He bows his head, grinds his teeth against further objections. It is _hard_ not to obey the Seeker. But _this_ is harder still. His eyes close, and he feels his sword drift, until it is point down, pommel up, hovering over Elf on the ground. He should pray, _needs_ to pray, but the words dry on his lips. How can he speak to the Maker and expect Him to listen when he has broken every vow he’s ever made?

Cassandra lingers at his elbow only a moment more before turning to go. She glares at the Dwarf as she brushes past him. “Why are _you_ here?”

“Levity?” The Varric shrugs, not smiling. He still wears the slightly shell-shocked expression he has since the Temple of Sacred ashes exploded.

Cullen barely notices. The blade in his hand is heavy… so heavy. He watches the Elf to distract himself. The _other_ Elf. Solas is thin lipped, bone-white and weary. There’s a sheet of blood drying on his tunic, and his hands shake as he casts a wave of magic over the prone form between them.

His eyes snap shut again, and he presses his forehead to his clenched fists. He hasn’t been this close to spellcasting since --

“Curly?” Varric says, voice low. “Breathe.”

Cullen feels a hand brush the small of his back, and fall away. A touch so swift he may have only imagined it.

He can feel the pulses of magic Solas casts. Wave, after wave, after wave. Barely a heartbeat between each spell. Cullen’s lips move restlessly, caught on a bit of a chant he can’t quite speak, but can’t quite stop thinking of.

 

_The air itself rent asunder,_

_Spilling light unearthly from the_

_Waters of the Fade,_

_Opening as an eye to look_

_Upon the Realm of Opposition_

_In dire judgement._

 

“Just breathe, Curly.”

He does.

\--

**Day 13**

_The clouds of ash are settling, and again the sky can be seen. But this is like no sky I have ever seen.They are calling it The Breach, and it hangs over Haven like a gangrenous wound upon the Maker’s breast._

_It is making everything worse._

_The Lyrium nags as it has always done. I feel constantly as though I have forgotten something, and startle, dozens of times a day, thinking I have yet to take my draught. Today I had a vial half prepared, before I remembered. And then I spent nearly an hour with the draught in my fist. I’m unsure if I was convincing myself to take it or not._

_I didn’t._

_But..._

_It is easy to sit in a tavern, drinking, and whoring, and blaming the holes in your life on an addiction. It is much harder to forget that Lyrium is more than a craving when you’re sitting under a hole in the sky made of magic, watching the world fall apart. I find myself reaching for abilities that are no longer there. Abilities that others may need me to possess._

_I do not know how to stop magic with a sword, and that is all that I have._

_I am afraid, doubly afraid, that this is merely the poor excuses of a weak soul. That I cannot in good conscience take the Lyrium unless I can convince myself it is for a greater purpose. I should ask Cassandra, but she…_

_I will not trouble her further._

_The prisoner will survive, Solas says. He is an Apostate of prodigious skill, but not Circle trained, I do not think._

_He bears watching._

_\- CSR_


	3. The Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prisoner wakes.

****When she opens her eyes again, she wishes she hadn’t.

She feels _awful._ She’s felt awful before, but this...

Her heart.

Her heart flutters, jumps. It _buzzes._ Like someone has pressed a lightning rune to her chest and then just left it there.

It’s too much. The magic in her veins is overwhelming, and unfamiliar and _wrong_ . Somehow, it doesn't fit right anymore. Too big in places, too small in others. As if someone… some _thing,_ had worn her magic and left the ghost of a trespasser behind.

It’s horrible and it hurts.

She swears she can count every bone in her arm, the lightning-buzz is sharpest there, and the bones grate where they touch. She imagines them splintering from the pressure, needles of bone pressing through her wrists, and her hands, and--

_What. Is. That._

She sees the shackles on her wrists the same instant as the emerald spill of light, and for an insane second she’s not sure what terrifies her more. With the light nearly blinding her, everything else is dark, but something moves in the background, a flicker of a shadow, barely, but she knows she isn’t alone. She kicks out, scrambling awkwardly away in the dirt, tries to press herself into a corner, tries, absurdly, not to be seen.

But the fucking thing on her hand shines, quite literally, like a beacon.

She cannot possibly hide. _They will find her._

Spots swim before her eyes and she’s not sure if she’s hyperventilating -- it sounds like someone is -- or has forgotten entirely to breathe. She gasps explosively, the feel of it raw in her throat. But her vision clears, motes of light flutter through her fingertips, and, impossibly, her heart feels better. She finds if she closes her fist she can dim the light, not much, but enough to see.

A Human woman looms over her, breathing heavily, raggedly, like she wants to sob but won’t. Her face is harsh, and angular and there are deep scars carved into her cheeks. She is terribly angry, and terribly frightening.

“Tell me what happened.” The woman’s voice is flat. It is not a question.

The light in her hand flares slightly and she fists it, but says nothing.

“At the Conclave.” The woman’s expression -- if it’s possible -- grows harder.

She says nothing.

After a moment there’s the sound of steel being pulled from a scabbard, whisper soft and deadly.

She can’t see the sword, but she can feel it, the cold sharp finger of it beneath her chin. She’s knows what to say - everything she’s ever said when cornered or caught. The excuses, the lies fill her mouth, catch behind her teeth and she can’t separate them enough to say what the woman needs to hear. _I fell off my horse and it ran away, might I use your fire to make a poultice? I’ve never been in this part of Thedas before, the trees here are so beautiful. I spotted some bandits on the roads nearby, can you take me to your guard captain so I might make a report? I am not a mage. Not a mage, not a mage, not a mage..._

She says nothing.

The woman’s anger flares, just slightly and she braces, instinctively, waiting to be struck.

“Cassandra. We need answers. Not blood.”

The sword at her throat lingers a moment longer before retreating. A second figure slides out of the shadows. “You must always start with easier questions.” She instructs.

A sound of a match being struck, and the shadows leap away from the candle the second woman holds. Light spills over pair, but does little to illuminate the space they’ve put her in -- but she thinks she sees bars in the darkness.

The woman holding the candle kneels. “What is your name?”

She says nothing.

“I’m Leliana.” The woman with the candle offers, and inclines her head towards the other. “This is Cassandra. You are with the Inquisition. You are safe. We won’t hurt you.”

She raises her brow at the manacles upon her wrist, and her eyes dart to where Cassandra’s sword has retreated into the darkness.

Leliana smiles, and -- despite the disapproving noise that Cassandra makes -- unlocks the manacles, and pulls them gently free. “You must forgive my colleague. Her great passion is not always a strength. She lost people she loved when the Conclave was attacked.”

“When -- _what?”_ She half-coughs the word, throat unexpectedly raw. Retches. Reaches out to catch herself, but her arms collapse beneath her. It’s not only her magic that is sluggish to respond. Even her mind must be off-kilter. It sounded as though Leliana had said… “That’s…” She clears her throat, tries again. “That’s not possible.”

Leliana’s eyes are sharp, and she realizes, belatedly, that the woman is searching for a reaction.

Even through the haze of dizzying shock and unease, she feels alarm unfurling in her gut. “How --?”

The magic inside her is clawing to get out. She realizes this a moment before the pain slams into her, sparking through every vein and setting her blood on fire. She curls around herself as waves of agony wrack through her. She’s not sure how long it lasts, but when the pain starts to fade it disappears almost entirely. And she’s left shivering on the ground, with her throat raw from screaming.

Leliana and Cassandra are looking down at her, wearing expressions that are a mix of sympathy and apprehension, but not alarm. They’ve seen this happen to her before.

She sucks in a shaky breath, rising unsteadily to her knees. “What --?” Her voice is broken, almost gone.

“It was an explosion, of some… _magnitude.”_ Cassandra says, her expression like a closed fist. “Caused -- as far as we can tell -- by a _powerful and unpredictable font of magic.”_ The woman’s eyes narrow. “So I ask you again. What happened at the Conclave?”

_Oh shit._

Shit. Shit.

“I don’t…” Her heart trips over the next several beats as her mind reaches, finding only emptiness. “I don’t remember...not any… not an explosion.”

“What _do_ you remember?” Cassandra’s jaw is clamped down so hard she can barely grit out the words.

She tells them. Haltingly. Tripping over her words, and the rawness in her throat, and the emerald flashes of light that spill from her palm. Twice she has to pause in her story as the magic tries to crawl out of her skin. Continuing only when the green flashes -- and the pain -- subsides.

Nothing she’d ever seen had prepared her for the Conclave. For the splendor of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the largest, and most intricately beautiful building she’d ever witnessed. For the riot of sound -- the heavy clank of armor, and voices, raised, and genuflecting in a dozen different languages -- and of color. Light from hundreds of stained glass windows dappled the gathered multitude with spots of blue and gold and green. Magic -- openly cast --  threaded through the crowds, a rainbow of spells from every school of magic, distinct and distinctive.

Most startling of all were the Templars, lined up by the hundreds in identical heavy plate, sashed in crimson and burgundy, the flaming sword of Andraste stamped upon their breasts.

“I never…” Her voice is weak, nearly gone. “I never knew there were so many Templars in the whole world…”

“You are an Apostate.” Leliana observes, mildly.

She swallows back a spurt of fear, and has to brace herself to keep from jerking away. _“All_ mages are Apostates now.”

“But _you_ were _before_ the circles fell.”

“Yes.” Her voice cracks, painfully, and the word hisses out of her, no louder than a whisper.

“It’s alright.” Something in Leliana’s expression shifts. Not softer, but more open. “I meant what I said. We aren’t going to hurt you. What is your name?”

She hesitates. “Rilora.”

“Rilora.” Cassandra repeats. The syllables sound harsher from the woman’s mouth. “Perhaps you might remember something _other_ than the atmosphere. Something about the Divine, perhaps. Or the council itself. Were the peace talks opposed at all?”

Rilora shakes her head. “The council had barely started… I… never saw the Divine up close. She was across the length of the hall, flanked by her Knights-Divine. They were dressed in silver, not gold. Fully armored, where most of the Templars had removed their helms. The Divine spoke. Gave a speech about freedom, and balance… about peace. It seemed… well received, but...”

 _“But?”_ Cassandra pounces on the word, small as it is.

“But I didn’t stay to the end.” She says, slowly. The magic, the mark… whatever it is, is _leaping_ around, and it’s hard to focus.

“Why not?” Leliana asks.

“I…” Rilora grimaces at the croaking sound, clears her throat, and tries again. “I’d decided to leave… that night.”

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“I’d thought… but it was too...” She pauses, shaking her head. “I’ll never go back to a Circle.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrow. “You _know_ what that sounds like, don’t you.”

“I _know_ they’ll blame it on a Mage.” Rilora snaps, anger rising. “They _already_ _are!”_ The light in her hand flares, as if spurned by her temper. It’s… _different_ than before. Focused, somehow. Her hand feels warm but it doesn’t hurt. She takes a deep breath. “You’ve asked your questions. I have one. What do you intend to do with me?”

The pair of women are silent for a moment before Leliana raises her head, grey eyes fixed in a level stare. “Ask you for your help.”

Rilora blinks. It is the least likely answer she expected. “For?”

“The explosion at the Conclave -- or whatever caused it -- tore a hole in the sky. That thing on your hand… when whatever it is flares up, that hole expands.” Leiana points above herself, towards the darkness of the thatched roof.  “It’s twice as large as it was. They call it the breach. We’re not sure what might happen if it gets any bigger.”

“Also, demons are falling out the sky.” Cassandra adds, for the sake of thoroughness, and drags Rilora to her feet.

\--

If she doubted Leliana's proclamation that they met her no harm -- and she did -- Rilora’s disbelief dies the moment Cassandra presses a staff into her hand.

It is electrifying. Like taking a breath when she hadn’t realized she was starving for oxygen. She fingers the wood, lighter and longer than the staff she’d lost at the Conclave, and less sturdily made, but it helps smooth over some of that off-kilter sensation to her magic. Her hands tighten around the staff, weighing her options.

The Warrior blazes a determined trail through the woods carrying a shield as large as she is, blade, unsheathed. The weapons are of the finest quality, stamped with Chantry insignia, a mis-match to the symbol etched into her breastplate. She moves easily, fearless, like someone who has never doubted their ability to cow or control any situation that crosses her path. She’s strong. Well armed. Alert.

And yet...

She and Cassandra are alone now. And, the Warrior’s back is turned.

The storm thrums at Rilora’s fingertips, tingling.

It would only take a moment. A heartbeat.

A flash of lightning, between the shoulder blades.

Enough charge to stop her heart.

Turn. Run.

And run.

And run.

Cassandra stops so suddenly, Rilora almost walks straight into her. “Do you know where we are?”

The spell in her hand vanishes.

“No. I…” She blinks, mind stuttering as it reconciles the half-ruined landscape before her.

Once there paved roads here. Ancient trees sheltering an immaculate courtyard, with a fountain she’d been sure had been touched by magic. Groups of Templars had stood in the shade, covertly eyeing a cluster of magelings, barely come into their magic. She’d sat on a bench in the corner, wondering if the garden walls were too high to climb.

Nothing is left of what she remembers. It looks like a pair of caterwauling giants have crashed through the mountainside. Of the Temple of Sacred ashes, there is naught, not even a ruined husk of the foundation. The building, the courtyard, the Templars, the young magelings… all gone. The trees -- some of them -- remain. Snapped in half, or stripped of their branches. They lean drunkenly against each other, desperately forlorn. She brushes her hand against one of the trunks and the tips of her fingers come away black with soot.

She closes her eyes against the sting of tears, but the scent of obliteration is too strong. Fire, and ash, and magic. So, so much magic.

“If you cannot remember what happened, who is to say you did not cause the explosion?” Cassandra asks. There is no accusation in her voice, only weariness. Only grief.

“I can’t.” Rilora says, voice tight. She scans the ruined horizon, even the sky is damaged. Dark, and sickly green. “How many… how many survivors were there?”

_“One.”_

The word cuts through her. Followed by ripples of denial. Shock. Horror. Her knees buckle, and she drops to the ground. The ash of a thousand dead drift up around her, catch in the breeze, stick to her cheeks as the tears fall.

One. Only one.

It is the wrong one, she knows.

“Grieve later.” Cassandra’s voice seems faint, but the warrior stands right beside her. “When there is time for tears.”

As if in answer, a great and terrible roar shudders through the stillness. It sounds ancient, and angry. A terror not wholly of this world. The ragged trees shiver, as though the noise itself was a physical blow.

Rilora rises shakily to her feet, smears her hand through the grit on her cheeks. “What was _that?”_

 _“That_ is why we need your help.”

\--

Rilora gapes at it when they finally reach the crest of the hill and spy the battle below.

A pride demon. As tall as a building and nearly as wide. Cassandra _had_ said that there were demons falling from the sky. That is not strictly accurate. They are not _falling,_ so much as _materializing._ Emerging from a large jagged tear that hangs above the ground, weeping light and emerald magic. High above, hangs the Breach. A huge, hurricane of magic and light. A torrent of energy that shifts as she watches, smoking brimstone, and lanced with green lighting.

Her hand tingles.

Whatever is up there… a piece of it is down here… _with her._

She shivers.

“Hurry! They will not last much longer!” Cassandra jostles her as she charges past, sprinting towards that strange, magical, demon-filled tear.

Rilora hesitates, fighting the urge to turn and sprint off in the _other_ direction.

But she can see Cassandra is right. They -- those meeting the demons with blades bared --   _are_ barely holding on.

The ground before the tear is thick with demons, and even thicker with broken bodies -- the men and women who have fought them. There are screams, and shouts. Mostly from the handful of soldiers still on their feet. Archers ring the battle, lofting arrows ceaselessly into the fray. She can see how tired the they are. They struggle to keep their bows steady. Arms, aching. Bowstrings wet with blood from torn blisters. The men on the frontlines are little better off. They scurry, meeting the demons head on. A terrific clash of claws and steel.

Yet for each demon they fell, another rises from the tear. Endlessly.

Most of the soldiers are dressed the same, in a sage-green uniform she doesn't recognize. They dispatch the smaller demons while a handful of others, harry the pride demon. There’s a mage amongst them, she realizes with a start. A fireball catches the beast along its flank, staggering the creature.

Cassandra is there, suddenly beside the mage. Her shield raised as she turns a blow from a lesser demon. The mage takes half a step back, sheltering for a moment as he readies another fireball.

For Rilora, fleeing is as instinctual as breathing. And yet she finds herself running _forward,_ and _into_ the fray before she makes the conscious decision to do so. The battle swells around her, swallowing her. She calls her magic to her, summoning a lightning strike at the nearest demon. She can feel the ebb and flow of her magic, as usual, but when she releases the spell, it is less like brushing her fingers against her mana pool, and more like falling in.

The spell is enormous. A torrent of raw energy that pours out of her, lighting snapping away in every direction. It obliterates the smaller demons. Tears them back into nothingness. The pride demon alone survives, storm shuddering off it’s armored back.

The soldiers turn and gape at her. Even Cassandra. There’s a dwarf she hadn’t noticed before, hefting an odd looking crossbow and, wiping a sheet of blood off his face.

“Ho- _ly_ shit.” He says in a gravely voice, creased with exhaustion. “You bring good reinforcements, Seeker.”

The only one who doesn’t seem surprised is the other mage. An _Elf._ She realizes with a start as he slides towards her, barefaced, head bare, and shiny with sweat.

“Use fire instead.” He raises his arms, fingertips already dripping flame. “Or frost. It is immune to the storm.” He casts, aims a blast at the creature’s knees.

She tries. Flame has never come easy to her. She casts a comet-like blast of fire, purple tail wreathed in lightning. It jitters off course, and scorches the ground more than the demon.

The mage makes a thoughtful sound and slides closer. “Follow my steps. Don’t reach for the spell. Let it well within you… then release.”

The fighting around them has resumed. The dwarf tucks himself at her back, firing bolts into the fray while Cassandra steps close to her other flank.

“Solas. Varric. Do not even _think_ of leaving her side.” The Warrior commands.

They don’t.

She tries to mimic Solas’ graceful steps. He wields the flame as if he was borne to it. In contrast, the magic _hiccups_ out of her -- when it doesn’t erupt -- but the trio seems unconcerned by her lack of control. They shift around her, but never away. Intent on keeping the creature’s focus _off_ of her, as much as felling it.

They tuck closer to Rilora, even as she casts another failed fireball. This one was all heat, a bright burst that nearly sears her fingertips. The fire trips and stutters out of her. It isn’t _just_ the strangeness of her magic, powerful and difficult, all at once. It is casting magic -- casting _offensive_ magic -- in front of others.

Solas shares none of her hesitation. Fire spells, small and targeted, cast with a pin-point accuracy keep the demon off balance, and away from the men hacking relentlessly at its underbelly. “Can you get closer?” He asks, panting. “The rift. Your hand. That mark should --”

The demon turns, spits lightning out at them. Solas raises his arms to cast a barrier, but Rilora gestures instead, and the energy shivers away, harmlessly.

But she felt it, when she raised her hand. A pull. A whisper. A tingle of magic across her palm.

She raises her hand again, deliberately. Nothing happens.

And then, all at once, _connection._

Her, and the rift, and the power that unites them. Magic. Spirits. Gentle touches from beyond the fade. It doesn't hurt, though bolts of emerald magic arc between them. Her hand glows as if afire, and she flexes her fingers. She can see the threads, the torn stitching in the veil.

It is nothing to will it to close.

She can feel the energy from the fade retreating. Shrinking.

The others pull away, pressing their advantage, driving back, and eradicating the smaller demons that slip free of the closing tear. A blonde man with a sword and shield leads a group of soldiers in a direct assault against the pride demon, Rilora can hear him barking orders even above the din of the creature's roar.

Only it doesn’t just roar.

“Commander! Get back!” Cassandra shrieks the moment before the demon launches an enormous blast of lightening towards the ground.

The energy disappears. For a moment it seems as though the earth has swallowed it. Then it explodes out in a torrent of storm and purple-stained rock. The energy of the blast rolls across the clearing in waves, sending them all spinning off in opposite directions. She hears Solas’ sharp Ehlven curse as he’s pushed away.

The blast servers Rilora’s connection with the tear, and the rift gapes like a wound pulled free of its stitching.

 _“Shit.”_ She steps forward again, but her raised hand explodes, not with light, but with pain.

_No no no no no no…_

She drops in a heavy, inelegant tangle of limbs and agony. It’s worse than before. Maybe it’s the proximity to the rift, or the breach, but it feels as though her bones have suddenly turned into liquid fire. Burning her. Choking her. If a demon appeared to her right now, she’d gladly give it anything to make the pain stop.

As if summoned by the thought, a demon _does_ loom before her. The lone pride demon. All armor and storm, and when it raises it’s massive fist the sob that shudders through her is part relief. 

_Please._

She squeezes her eyes shut, body clenched against the blow. She hears it land, a tearing, sickening sound, loud, like the rending of metal. She opens her eyes, and the Pride demon is there, electricity snapping between it’s armored skin, reining blows down upon the warrior crouched directly above her. It’s not Cassandra, she realizes, but the one she had called to, the Commander. His blond hair dark with sweat, faced streaked with blood, and creased with exhaustion. The light from her hand illuminates his face as odd angles, casting deep, green shadows over the bridge of his nose. He shudders, arm raised, shield angled to cover them both.

The demon rears, lashing out at them, and the Commander braces his feet at against the underside of the shield. “Damnit, Cassandra.”

Rilora is still curled tightly in a ball, the pain in her hand lancing through her body. She’s screaming, high and shrill, and the Commander winces at the noise, but she can’t seem to stop. Her body arches, presses against him for a moment as the pain reaches it’s peak.

_Please, please. No more._

The Pride demon strikes again, an enormous blow, all claw and lightening, and the Commander’s shield breaks. The lower half shears off at an odd angle. He rears up, swordless, and strikes out with the base of his shield, using the sharp edge like a scythe, deflecting one of the creatures swipes. The remaining portion of the shield shatters, and she hears the man gasp in pain.

“Fuck. _Shit.”_

The Pride demon looms.

He flings himself over her bodily, pinning her beneath him. Shoulders braced, and determined. Poised to take whatever blow lands next. She makes a small sound of relief as the pain in her hand starts to abate, and his eyes snap to hers, surprised. They’re gold, she notices, absurdly. Wide, and shadowed, and terrified. They catch the light of the mark on her hand, and for a moment seem spangled with bits of green.

A barrier settles over them. A complex spell twined with healing magic. It cuts through the last of the pain in her hand, clears her head.

The Commander lurches to his knees, gasping. “The rift! Go!”

She does. Slipping on the small puddle of blood that’s formed beneath them. Skinning her knees on the torn up earth. Her staff is gone, she doesn’t remember dropping it, but it hardly matters. Her hand is filled with the only weapon she needs.

She sprints across the battlefield, dodging demons and soldiers alike, and makes the connection the moment she’s in range of the rift. Her palm fills with green light, and she wonders if she’s pulling magic from the rift, or if it’s pulling it from _her._ The tear mends as before, slowly at first, and then faster, and faster, like stepping into a current. That one moment you have to pull back before you’re taken.

She couldn’t stop it now if she tried.

The pride demon, the sounds of battle, even the excited shouts of the soldiers around seem suddenly distant. Inconsequential. There is the rift, and there is her. The magic that arcs between them blurs that divide, and for a moment if feels as though _she_ is the doorway into the fade.

The tear burns white-hot when it closes. A line of pure-lightening hanging in the sky, followed by a thunderclap, as the door slams shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the looong, long delay between chapters. This has been an unexpectedly crazy year for me. <3 <3
> 
> I can't describe how touched I am that you guys have taken an interest in this story. <3


	4. The Commander

****Cullen sits at his desk, running the tips of his fingers lightly over the last weeks worth of journal entries. Everything since arriving at Haven. Stolen moments, interrupted thoughts. Bits of his soul scattered across the page.

 A handful in all. The accounts have been brief since the attack on the Conclave. Growing briefer as the magnitude of the trouble became clear. He’d managed a full sentence yesterday, before practically collapsing atop his journal. Wrung out with exhaustion. Swallowed by past failures. Choked by fading hope.

 

**_Day 14_ **

_Reports have been pouring in, or, stuttering in -- I suspect the supply lines have been compromised. Leliana seems tense, and even she can make no sense of what they suggest. Demons. Scattered across the countryside. We’ve no idea yet how they got there. I suspect the lack of proper circles has something to do with the matter._ _  
_

_There’s been no reports yet of abominations._ ~~_But it is only a matter of time._ ~~ _Josephine insists that I remain positive._

 _I should thank the Maker for small favors, but I find it difficult to see the Maker’s hand in this terror. Cassandra asked me to keep faith. Her resolve is unshakable._ ~~_She is everything I am not._ ~~ _I strive to follow her example._

_Leliana fell asleep at the Chantry. She and Josephine have been--_

 

**_Day 15_ **

_Demons._

_How did this happen?_

_At least there is something to fight now. I prefer this to striking at shadows. Anything you can swing a sword at, seems less impossible to manage._

_It would be easier with the lyrium, though._

      _\-- CSR_

 

**_Day 16_ **

_Andraste watch over us all. A Pride Demon’s been sighted near--_

 

**_Day 17_ **

_I do not know who started the rumor._

 

Yesterday’s entry.

Cullen stares down at the words, tapping a clean, dry quill at the edge of his journal. His brow furrows.

He barely remembers writing it. He’d gone to bed so late it had been nearly dawn. Wrapped in the scent of Elfroot. Nerves still jangling with the aftershocks of battle. Exhaustion, and adrenaline, and lust, tangling with the spikes of pain. He’d been _certain_ sleep would elude him for some time, and yet…

He sighs, and dips his quill.

 

  **Day 18**

_The stability of the Inquisition -- a fledgling organization by any definition of the word -- has deteriorated rapidly. Much of our supplies, food, and medicines, (even common tools, and textiles) have been distributed to the nearby villages. The supply trains that were previously established have been delayed, mostly due to the condition of the roads, or lack thereof. Those not destroyed by the explosion, or the fighting, have eroded in the face of cowardice and uncertainty. The influx of recruits -- generously described as, a trickle -- has ceased entirely. And there has been a rash of desertions._

_Our army is in danger of being downgraded to a mere gaggle._

_Yet for all our lack, and losses, we have acquired a savior, of a sort._

_Surely the Maker’s Chosen tips the scales more heavily in our favor than sacks of grain, or potions, or blankets, or supply trains. Or not nearly enough competent fighting men._

_Clearly, my struggle with gratitude continues._

_I know the power of words. Have seen words whispered in doorways and shadowed corners, and watched them fly, trampling armies, and alighting revolutions. Even Hawke was a whisper as much as he was a man. But it took the Champion nearly four years to gain his title. The Herald of Andraste -- as Cassandra’s prisoner is being called -- has been raised up from nothing in two scant days._

_Even the ascension of Andraste herself was not so swift._

_Josephine insists that nobility and common folk alike will rally around a hero, since one has miraculously manifested. I cannot say that she is wrong. However, this Herald is an Elf, a Mage, and uncommonly pretty._

 

Cullen’s quill stutters to an abrupt halt.

He frowns down at the page and re-reads the last sentence. _Twice._

“Maker’s Breath.”

Absurd. He is absurd. Cullen sets his quill down entirely, and tangles his hands in his hair, breathing heavily through his nose. He drags the tips of his fingers hard against his skull, trying to stimulate his brain into being less… _abysmal._ He can feel himself flushing, and sends a brief prayer of gratitude to the Maker that he writes in the solitude of his cabin, and not at the makeshift field office near Haven’s gate.

He reaches crosses it out. Over, and over, and over again, until nothing remains of his unprofessional, and irrelevant observation.

 

 _\-- uncommonly powerful._ [He writes instead.]

_Terrifyingly so._

_Whatever magic had been tearing her apart has subsided, or so Solas assures us. He acquitted himself well in the battle, from what I recall. The more uncontrolled displays of magic, came from the Herald herself. She did close the_ ~~_rip_ _tear_ _horrifying demon portal_~~ _whatever it was._

_I suppose she has earned our thanks, if not our trust. Though, there is still the Breach._

~~_I have been getting headaches._ ~~

~~_I have been getting headaches._ ~~

_I have been getting headaches._

_It is a selfish, insignificant trouble. Far outweighed by everything else that has happened. Still, I feel compelled to document the effects of lyrium withdrawal, or what_ _might_ _be lyrium withdrawal, as I have been unable to find any other reliable sources on the matter._

_I cannot say if the headaches are due to lack of lyrium, lack of sleep, or stress. Surely, there has been little of the former, and an abundance of the latter. But they have been building, like thunder on the horizon, and it seems remiss of me not to address them. So I have._

 

__\-- CSR_ _

 

\--

The War Room is as it has ever been. Grim. And entirely all business.

“How is she?” Cassandra asks when they all arrive. No need to ask who is meant by _she._

“The same.” Leliana admits. “The mark on her hand remains stable. But she is still unconscious.”

“Yet still her fame grows.” Josephine adds. “The nobles whose correspondence _has_ managed to get through seem surprisingly... _unalarmed_ by our Elven Mage.”

“It is the same with the troops.” Cullen frowns, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “Though in their case, I think it is more gratitude than a true lack of concern. The number of our soldiers lives she saved by closing that rift is… incalculable. Still. I would feel better if we knew more about her.”

“We’ve learned very little.” Leliana admits, crossing her arms, and glaring at the -- rather slender -- packet of papers before her. “Dalish born. Mage. Sent to the circle at Markham, in the Free Marches. Escaped a few years later, shortly before the circles fell. Has been living as an Apostate since then.” She sighs, fingers light against the parchment. “We’ve still no idea why she was sent to the Conclave, or by whom.”

_Markham._

Cullen’s frown deepens. “Markham’s reputation is --”

“Well earned.” Cassandra asserts. “Though it was one of the last of the Circles to fall at the start of the war, so I cannot give credence to _all_ the rumors.”

“Markham’s records were destroyed or damaged when the Circle _did_ fall. So much of what it _was_ or wasn’t may remain a mystery. But, if there is anything to be found of our Herald, my people will find it.” Leliana says firmly.

_Our Herald._

A strained and uneasy silence falls over the War Table. Cassandra and Cullen share a brief, uneasy look.

“So,” Josephine’s voice is soft, and hesitant. “You believe?”

“I do.” Leliana says simply, tapping her papers back into a neat stack. She does not elaborate further.

“And you Cassandra?” Josephine asks.

“I…” Cassandra shakes her head, as if in denial, a furious scowl on her face. But she fists the hand on the tabletop, and says, “You were not there Josephine. The things she did… the things she _can_ do… I do not know if she is Andraste’s Herald, but she has been touched by the Maker, that much I am certain of.”

Cullen feels that odd little urge to agree, and has to stop himself from nodding automatically. And yet… Seekers themselves are guided by the Maker’s hand. Surely Cassandra, of all people, would be able to see _His will_ at work.

Still. He is not a Templar. And this Herald --

“Cullen?” Leliana interrupts. “You fought beside her at the Temple. What is your opinion?”

“Cassandra is likely right.” He frowns. “She -- the Herald and I -- have not even spoken.”  
  
“Your assessment, then.” The spymaster presses.

 _Uncommonly pretty._ He thinks, closing his eyes. _Storm powers. Hesitates between casts. Favors her right hand. Unreliable magic._

“She’ll run.” He says, instead. “First chance she gets. She’s an apostate.” He elaborates to the surprised faces around him. “The cost of fleeing a Circle high. Mages are often killed during recapture. If they _are_ returned, they are considered for the Rite of Tranquility.” He touches the War Table with the tips of his fingers, almost gingerly. “The head of our Inquisition is made of up of the two of the highest ranking members of the Chantry, a former Templar, and a member of the nobility. She’s no reason to want to stay with us. And we’ve no hold over her, to force her to. It’s --” He shrugs, almost apologetically. “You can always tell the one’s who’ll run.”

Cassandra makes a noncommittal sound, but the line of her mouth thins out. “Then we must pray that we can convince her to stay. There are reports of more rifts."

“Two yesterday, another five today.” Leliana confirms. “From what we can tell, they are all like the one at the Temple.”

Cullen swears under his breath, though the news is not unexpected.

The second half of the council is nearly as bad of the first. There are shortages of nearly everything. Complications at every turn. Several soldiers abandoned one of the mass pyres they were forced to light, to deal with the dead villagers. Nearly an acre of timber was destroyed, along with a valuable sawmill, before they were able to quell the blaze.

Josephine reports that the Marquis du Rellio, one of the few nobles _not_ taken in by the Herald, is demanding to inspect the Divine’s official writ for the use of Haven, or, failing that, for the Inquisition to quit the village entirely. And unfortunately, Justina’s written orders were destroyed at the Conclave.

 _“Coward.”_ Cullen growls. “Fool. We ought to do as he says. See how he fares against whatever demons still lurk on the mountainside, _without_ the last remaining force this side of the Frostbacks.”

“Or we could simply dispatch the Marquis.” Leliana snorts. “Surely his heirs would be more… welcoming.”

“Leliana,” Josephine gives the seneschal a level, unamused gaze, “it has only been two hours since you last suggested that we murder someone.”

“It would save us a great deal of paperwork.” Leliana shrugs with one shoulder. An entirely Orlesian gesture.

“In fact, it would not.” Josephine sighs. _“I_ will deal with the Marquis, and the paperwork. _You_ refrain from murder, at least until after dinner.”

The council disbands, and Cullen lingers, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the knots that have formed from hunching over the map. They’d pinned a sheet of parchment to the table, outlining the devastation from the destruction of the conclave. It sits atop the map like a burn mark, a stain leaning against the foothills of the Frostbacks, a mere handbreadth away from Haven.

“It might have been worse, if not for the Herald, you know.” Leliana says softly. The others have left, and they are alone. She touches the map, almost reverently. “Cassandra might be wrong. It is just as likely that she tempered the destruction, as caused it.”

“It’s hardly worth convincing me.” Cullen says with an amused sound. “For better, or for worse, no one sees her as the villain any longer. Except Cassandra.” He adds for strict accuracy.

Leliana is quiet for a moment. “Cassandra grieves in her own way.”

“My condolences.” Cullen offers, softly. “I have not had the opportunity to ask… the Divine… How… Are you alright?”

“You and Cassandra were delayed by the storms.” She says, voice strangely even. “I lingered at Haven of my own choosing.”

Cullen nods. Guilt, is grief’s dearest companion, after all. “It is no doubt a waste of breath to tell you, that if you _had_ gone to the Conclave, you’d likely be dead. The Divine was not unguarded. And, Left Hand or no, there is nothing you could have done to prevent such an catastrophe.”

Leliana meets his gaze, eyes raw and ringed with red. “I would not have tried to prevent it, Commander. I simply would have _gotten Justinia out.”_ She looks down at the black spot  map, at the harsh reminder of the destruction. “You disagree?”

Cullen frowns. “I’m thinking I would have made a very poor hand of the Divine, indeed. I could not have left all those people to die.”

She look she gives him is flat, but it glimmers faintly with amusement. “Has anyone told you that you are _terrible_ at offering comfort?”

“No.” He says, “But I am. I’m sorry. And… I _am_ sorry. Truly.”

They fall silent a moment before Leliana asks, “How is your arm, Cullen?”

It’s an abrupt change of topic, but he seizes upon it, instantly.

“Better. Thank you for your concern.” He touches the injury automatically, still heavily padded, and throbbing beneath his tunic. His shield had shattered when he’d fought the Pride Demon. Steel shards had sliced into his forearm, nearly to the bone.

She makes a thoughtful noise. “You ought to have Solas see to it. I know you didn’t take the Elfroot potion Josephine procured for you.”

He grunts, amused. “Tell your spies that one of my soldiers will walk with a limp, instead of never walking at all.”

 _“Solas.”_ She insists. “Then my spies will have no cause to worry.”

Cullen sighs, and stares back down at the map, grinding his teeth in indecision. He’d ordered one of his own Lieutenants to seek healing the day before -- the man was a Templar recruit who hadn’t managed to take his vows before the Circles fell. Fresh-faced and nearly squeaky with newness, he’d _sneered_ at the idea of seeking help from a Mage -- do not Templars hold themselves above their charges -- and in return, Cullen had given him a blistering lecture about the purpose of the Inquisition, and battle readiness taking priority above all else in times such as these.

He does not, naturally, hold himself above following his own advice.

Still…

When he excuses himself from the war room, he finds himself meandering through the upper tiers of Haven, skirting around, but never _quite_ making it to, the tiny storage-shed-turned-cabin they’d assigned to the Apostate. The _other_ Apostate.

“Coward.” He mutters to himself. “Fool.” And, marshaling his courage -- or his sense of recklessness -- marches purposefully towards the cabin. He knocks sharply at Solas’ door, still hoping to find the Mage without. But the Elf’s steady voice bids him enter, and so he does.

The cabin is small, and dark, and odd-smelling. The little table in the corner is so crammed full of bundles of herbs, that he wonders if the apothecary uses it as a storehouse. The chair on the other side of the room is piled with books. A row of lit, and half-burned candles -- clearly lifted from the chantry -- line the small headboard. Solas himself is seated on the bed, comparing a long, leafy plant with a sketch in an oversized, decrepit looking tome.

“Commander Cullen.” He looks up. “Your arm?”

Cullen nods, a frown already pinching between his brows. He has to steel himself not to draw away from Solas when he reaches out, laying a long-fingered hand on Cullen’s arm. He feels an exploratory pulse of magic shiver through his limb. It’s not an unpleasant feeling in and of itself, but it sets his teeth on edge. “If… if it’s no bother.”

Solas gestures to the bed. “You’ll need to remove the bandages, if you can.”

He’ll have to practically strip to the waist to do that.

Cullen silently curses, but pulls off his gloves and begins to unbuckled his vambrace and breastplate. Every hair on the back of neck stands on end, as he removes his armor, piece by piece, until he is in his shirtsleeves. Alone, and unarmored with a known apostate. Words like _death wish_ and _unconscionably foolish_ float around in his mind. They sound unsettlingly as though they are spoken in Meredith’s voice.

The Mage tactfully keeps his back turned while Cullen undresses. Busying himself with setting his tiny workspace to right.

Cullen carefully rolls up the sleeve of his tunic. There are _hundreds_ of things he’d rather be doing, he nearly stands and see himself out, but just then, there’s a brief, frantic knock, and the door to Solas’ tiny cabin bursts open. The Herald rushes in, door shutting behind her with such force, that three of the candles extinguish.

Cullen scrambles to his feet, half-relieved, half-alarmed. “You’re awake.” He says, inanely.

She looks as wrong-footed as he feels, and rather worse for wear. She’s noticeably thinner, and there are deep circles beneath her eyes and a sharp crease between her brows. _“You.”_ She says breathlessly, going utterly still for a heartbeat. She glances at Solas, but her eyes keep sliding back to Cullen as if torn between the pair of them.

“I…” She hesitates a moment longer before turning to the other Mage, and presenting her marked hand, palm up as if in supplication. “Take it.” She says without preamble. “You _have to_ take it.” The panic in her voice is clear.

Solas’ lips thin out at her request. Cullen can see him grinding his teeth, the small movements making the muscles in his jaw leap. “If I was able…”

“Please, you have to.” She repeats, desperately. “I _can’t…_ and Varric said --”

“I tried.” Solas admits quietly, gently folding the fingers of her hand closed. Little erratic sparks of magic flutter between their closed fists. “Believe me.”

Her fingers tighten around Solas’, but her gaze doesn’t waver. “Can… can you remove it without magic, then? Cut it out?” She asks, voice low. “Off?”

Cullen sucks in a low, shocked breath, and Solas meets his gaze briefly over the top of her head.

“I _can’t_ have this in me.” She insists, her gaze is hard and focused, on the near-side of crazed. “I can’t. Please.”

The other Elf lets out a small sigh, and traces a line with his finger halfway up her bare forearm. Presumably, where he’d make the cut. “The magic that made this is… old, and _complex._ It will very likely kill you, if I tried to remove it by force. And even then…” Solas pulls his hands back with a small shake of his head. “I am sorry.”

She nods, mutely, backing away, fisting her marked hand against her abdomen, as if trying to staunch a mortal wound. Her eyes dart around the room, wide, and blank. Cullen can see the tide of panic well within her. Sees her try to swallow it down, teeth clenched. Her expression hardens a little, and for a moment she seems almost resigned, but then, all at once, everything cracks.

She falls to her knees. Folds in on herself. Presses her hands over her face, as though trying to physically stave off the the tears, but it’s too much to contain. Grief and terror simply pour out of her. The mark on her hands flares erratically, bathing the tiny room in harsh green light. Cullen flinches, expecting screams of agony, but there are only the soft sounds of someone’s heart breaking wide open.

It is far, far _worse._

Cullen’s hand twitches, fingers reaching towards the figure upon the floor. Someone should… But not him…

He glances at the other Elf.

Solas’ features are absolutely rigid. The light from the mark catches in the hollow of his eyes, and for a moment he’s nearly skeletal. Ragged, and empty. He looks ancient somehow. Brittle. Worn. His head tilts, just slightly, jaw clenching. It's the only way he acknowledges the woman keening at his feet.

The Herald makes little noise as she weeps, though her shoulders shake with the force of her sobs. Cullen kneels slowly beside her, carefully adjusting his sword belt so he doesn’t stab either of them. He glances nervously at Solas, but the Elf is still being no help at all. So he reaches forward, and awkwardly pats at the Herald’s forehead. “It’s alright.”

She startles at his touch. Pale blue eyes wide, and watery. He starts to pull back, a stilted apology already forming at his lips, when she _leans_ into his hand. Breath catching on a tiny sigh.

All the air in his lungs comes out in a startled rush, and he leans in a little too, stroking the tangled hair off her brow.

“I’m sorry.” He offers hoarsely, then grimaces.

_Rutherford, you are terrible at this._

“I--” Hesitation. Then the dam breaks again. Her expression crumples, weight shifting towards him, and all at once she’s in his arms. Sobbing, face pressed into the curve of his shoulder. His arms tighten around her instinctively, but he’s not sure what he should do, or say. He glances at Solas for some sort of intervention, but the Apostate remains still.

“I’m sorry.” He says again. It is better than nothing. _Barely._ But it is all he can say.

She tangles fistfuls of his tunic in her hands, trembling. The sound of her cries ebb and flow, broken by the breathless catches in her breathing. Cullen holds on, and tries to remember to make soothing noises. He has no experience with this -- has never held anyone dissolving in tears before. But he thinks of the kennel master he knew in Honnleath, a tall man, strong, and whipcord thin, and remembers watching him soothe an agitated mabari bitch struggling to birth. _Owens,_ had been the man’s name. And Cullen remembers how he’d held on, arms strong, yet gentle, and stroked the mabari’s flank as she whined and whimpered.

“There, now...” Cullen says, running his hand lightly down the Herald’s arm. “It’s going to be alright.” He whispers quietly. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

His back aches, and he leg is falling asleep, but he doesn’t let go. He’s not sure how long they sit as they do, crouched on the floor of Solas’ cabin, his arms folded around the Herald, muttering softly into her ear. But after a time he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“She’s asleep.” Solas remarks quietly.

She is. The terror and grief having burned through whatever internal reserves she’d managed to restore.

Cullen moves slowly, careful not to wake her. She stirs, briefly, the hand in his tunic tightens for a moment, and he feels… well, he feels rather foolish, and he can tell the tips of his ears are glowing pink. She’s heavy and warm in his arms, and completely wrung out. He shifts from foot to foot, trying to adjust her so she’s less awkward in his arms. “I should take her back to her cabin.”  He says, voice low. “I’ll… I’ll send someone to collect my things.”

Solas nods, and helps him to the door.

Once outside, Cullen pointedly ignores any attention they draw, taking the shortest path back towards her cabin. He hopes whatever rumors this act inspires is a boost to morale, and doesn’t merely become fodder for one of Varric’s ridiculous stories. He’s practically at Haven’s center, where the Dwarf is _ever so_ casually positioned to soak in the Inquisitions atmosphere, when he feels the Herald stir against him.

The dark sweep of her eyelashes flutter open, and she shifts a little in his arms, body going rigid for a moment, before settling. Her marked palm rests against his shoulder, the magic caught inside it, flashes erratically. He flinches away a little, remembering the torrents of raw, uncontrolled power she’d wielded.

“Does it hurt?” He asks, frowning.

“No… not anymore.”  Her voice is soft, and thick, heavily creased with exhaustion. “It’s… just warm, and… _see?”_ She presses her marked hand against his chest, just over his heart.

He takes a startled breath, steps faltering.

It _is_ warm. Alarmingly so. Like a tiny furnace nestled in her palm. And it… _throbs._ A heartbeat. A tiny, shockwave of power rippling across her skin. It’s disquieting. Makes every hair on the back of his neck stand up. This close he can _smell_ the magic within her. The scent of lightning under her skin. Like ozone and warped metal.

Worst of all, the strangeness of the magic calls to the lyrium wrapped ‘round his bones. He can feel it plucking at him, trying to stir something within. It’s an unpleasant sensation, just this side of actual pain. Like pressing your thumb against the edge of a dull blade. A lingering sense of danger.

“Yes.” He croaks, then clears his throat, fighting for composure. “I see.”

If the Herald notices his discomfit, she doesn't say so, simply lets her head drop back to his shoulder with a heavy _thump._ “I don’t like it.” She says after a moment, voice tremulous. She tucks her face against him, a little. As though trying to hide any tears that may be welling.

He nods, agreeing. But honesty compels him to add: “I do not know what we would have done without it. Our soldiers… the rift. For what it is worth… _thank you.”_

She says nothing, but the breath gusts out of her on a sigh. He can feel it, a breath of air against the bare skin of his neck. Warm, and close. He can almost feel her lips against him. It makes him stumble, just a little, and her hands tighten against him.

And if he feels the heavy thud of his heart in his chest, it is all the fault of the mark in her hand.

By the time they reach the tiny cabin where she’s been quartered she is asleep once again. There is little in the room, just a bed and the sour smell of elfroot. He lays her carefully across the quilt, and wonders absurdly if he ought to remove her boots. But the thought of undressing her, even a little…

 _“Maker’s Breath.”_ He mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

In the end he simply flips the edge of the quilt up over her. Leaves word with one of the aides who miraculously appears just outside the Herald’s cabin. Then he walks, very calmly back to his own little cabin on the other side of Haven. Sits at his desk, ignoring the untidy pile of letters littering the surface, and buries his head in his hands, where the scent of lightning lingers still.

\--

The Herald sleeps on and off, for two more days. Solas tends to her, and assures them all it is merely exhaustion. But Cullen knows it is more that _just_ fatigue. It is the _thing_ on her hand. Shoving around. Making space for itself inside her. He can only hope it is not too greedy.

When she wakes, she wakes to a new world.

She is the maleficar who destroyed the conclave, no longer. Instead she is Andraste’s own Herald, with the might of the Maker in her fist. And she is miserable.

_Skittish._

That is the word that sticks in his mind whenever he thinks of her. Whenever he _sees_ her. A glimpse, caught here and there. The shape of her beside Varric’s fire as he breezes past, en route to the training field. The flutter of her long, dark hair as she lingers at the doorway of Solas’ cabin. The Dwarf and the other Mage are the only ones she seems to speak to, and it is another two days before she agrees to stand before the council.

Now he wishes they had waited longer.

Her appearance is much improved. The dark circles beneath her eyes have faded a bit, and she’s lost the most ragged of her edges, and that disquieting sense of being consumed from within. She looks pale, but perhaps she just _is_ pale. Her eyes dart around the room as though she’s not sure where she’s supposed to look.

A Mage, _cornered._ Cullen finds it difficult to keep his hand off the pommel of his sword.

Cassandra says nothing, but the corners of her mouth are tight. Lips pursed, as if it is the only other expression she can manage, save a scowl.

Josephine, at least, smiles. “Herald. We are --”

Something flickers behind those pale blue eyes. “I’m leaving.” She says, quietly.

He meets Cassandra’s sharp and disappointed gaze. He _had_ warned them.

“Why?” Leliana asks. Her voice is uncharacteristically gentle.

“You said I’m not a prisoner.” The Herald reminds her, tightly. Her marked palm is fisted against the table top, knuckles white.

“You aren’t.”

“Then I can leave.” She insists. “I’m leaving.”

Josephine makes a small sound of distress. “Will you not consider staying, at all? Even for a short time? You have become a beacon of hope for so many, Herald. Already, Thedas looks to you. There is so much you could accomplish.”

She looks at the Ambassador as if Josephine has just sprouted wings. Equal parts startled, and horrified. A tiny flutter of green magic escapes her fist.

“Our soldiers believe you have been sent by Andraste herself. The Maker’s chosen.” Leliana says. She doesn't say that _she_ believes it too. “Yours is not an ordinary magic. You can seal the rifts. There are many of them. You are needed.”

The Herald makes a choked sound. “No God in their right mind would choose me.”

Cassandra makes a thin sound of agreement.

The Herald glances up, and for a moment her expression relaxes into something almost resembling ease. But she is resolute.

They try. Josephine, and Leliana. Even Cassandra, offering a halted, and slightly blistering admonishment that she ought to think of the lives she might save. They are passionate. He’ll give them that. For nearly an hour they circle the Mage, reasoning, cajoling, failing to notice that the Herald is becoming more and more withdrawn. Answering with shorter, and shorter sentences. Refusing to meet their gazes. Tears spark on her lashes, but do not fall.

The Herald looks like she might say something more, but she doesn’t. Just turns, and leaves. The door to the war room bangs shut behind her with a thud that sounds like nothing so much, as failure.

\-- 

Cullen watches her go from the hillside vantage near the training ground. It is early, his troops have only just begun to gather at the small training field besides the gates of Haven. No one else sees her leave. She carries her staff like a walking stick, and with her hood pulled up, she looks like any other road-weary traveler, and nothing at all like the prophetic Herald of Andraste. Her progress is slow. He loses sight of her here, and there through the trees, and, for a time, thinks she is truly gone before he spies her again crossing the bridge high above the frozen falls. She lingers there. A small dark fleck against the glittering ice.

He’s distracted momentarily by one of the recruits -- the fool keeps dropping his sword to readjust the weight of his shield on his arm -- but when he looks back, she is there still.

He watches her for nearly an hour. Ever expecting to glance back, and see her gone. But she remains, still as stone. Cullen stares at her unmoving form for precisely five more minutes, before calling to his Lieutenant to take over the drills, and heading down the trail after her.

It’s colder with Haven behind him. The woods, thin as they are, swallow him almost at once, and for a large stretch there’s only trees, and snow, and the swirling breach overhead. The bridge is set at an abrupt bend in the road, and when he rounds it, the Herald is still there, forearms braced against the rail, staring out at the empty, frozen lake.

He takes in her appearance. Dark leathers, threadbare cloak, a sac -- too small to carry much in the way of provisions -- and a short-staff, roughly crafted, and so ancient looking it’s likely to explode in her face if she actually tries to cast with it.

Cullen draws a breath, holds it for a moment, then lets it out with a sigh.

Her eyes flicker to him, then away.

“I have absolutely no idea what to say to you.” He shakes his head, disappointed by his own lack of eloquence.

She glances at him again, eyes sharp, searching for some sign of mockery in his gaze. “I _am_ leaving.” She insists.

He nods. His fingers find the pommel of his sword. It’s a bad habit, and he forces himself to stand at the rail beside her. He can feel the cold of the stone through his gloves. “To where?” He asks.

She makes an aggravated sound, and brings the palm of her marked hand down on the stone rail. It makes a soft, impotent sound, and he remembers how she made the earth tremble with nothing more than her bare hand. Now it just seems small. Almost fragile. “I can’t stay here.” She says, voice tight. “And I can’t… _go_ anywhere. There’s nowhere to go _to.”_

Cullen clamps his lips together so he doesn’t say something stupid, like _the Alienage._

He knows it is likely a wasted effort -- he is less silver-tongued by half than either Josephine or Leliana -- but duty compels him to _try._ “You don’t have to go.” He says, haltingly. “The Inquisition is... very likely, all that stands between the world, and darkness. You could be a part of that. A large part, likely.”

“I’m not what you want.” She says, voice small. _“Believe me.”_

The omission tugs at something inside him.

“The Inquisition…” She makes a helpless gesture. He can’t see the flare of magic in her palm, the glove covers her arm, up to her elbow, but he can _feel it._ “You need someone strong, and brave, and I can’t bear --” She shakes her head. “All I am is _scared. All the time.”_

 _Oh._ Oh of course.

Cullen frowns at his own stupidity. “How long have you been an Apostate?”

She closes her eyes, the breath rushes out of her with a soft sigh. “I’ve seen more people in the last day, than I have in the last five years. I haven’t _spoken_ this much since…” She shakes her head, eyes still closed, as if shaking off bad memories. “I don’t know what to do.” She says, thickly.

“Stay.” He asks.

She makes a sound that bears the shape of laughter, but isn’t. “It’s not that simple.”

“It can be.” He looks at her. “I know the cost of conflict. I know what you will need to bear, should you choose to remain. And I have no good reason for you to do so. Still. Stay, please.”

Cullen does not know how many heartbeats they stand in silence in the drifting snow. But all at once she seems unable to hold his gaze. He’s certain she’ll turn and go, but inexplicably she nods.

“I’ll stay.” She agrees, softly.

Cullen closes his eyes.

_Thank the Maker._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apologies (again) for the long wait between chapters. I somehow got it into my head that this wasn't the fic I should be working on, so it lingered with only a few bits left to finished, for months, and then I felt bad about how long it took, and thought it should be better due to the wait... but *whelp* this is what I got. :)
> 
> Thanks for sticking around. <3 <3


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